Coping Mechanisms
by EngelxderxNacht
Summary: They told him Gene Starwind was dead and he fell apart. After all, it couldn't possibly end that way. Maybe he was right. GenexFred
1. Night is the Worst

The blue light off the television screen was the first thing that his heavy eyes registered upon opening; it washed his slender hand almost silver, the hand that hovered in his vision from where it lay propped against the deep plush of the sofa's arm. He couldn't remember what he'd been watching when he fell asleep. That seemed to happen a lot these days. He reached for a glass on the coffee table, brought it to his dry lips in hopes of washing the god-awful taste from his mouth. It was empty of course; he'd drained its contents at some point earlier that night. A faint smell of liquor drifted up from somewhere, but he wasn't entirely sure if it was from the glass, or the still uncorked bottle on the table, or even if it was only rising from his own body.

He set the glass back at the edge of the table and shifted his sleep-heavy body. Fragments of a less-than-pleasant dream played about the edges of his consciousness and he rolled onto his stomach, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the images. It didn't work. He knew it wouldn't, but made the gesture all the same. At least it shut out the light of the television.

_Gene Starwind, dead_.

Fred couldn't think about anything else, hadn't been able to think about anything else since he'd heard the news. Over and over, he'd watched the explosion in his mind's eye.

Gene, sent into an abandoned warehouse on a phony job by an outlaw with a chip on his shoulder. Gene, picking up a crate supposedly loaded with some valuable nonsense or other and triggering the assassin's trap. Gene, who had survived near-death encounters in so many outrageous ways, only to be killed by a third-rate assassin who'd set up enough explosives to completely incinerate the entire warehouse. There had been no remains.

He'd even hired his own investigators, the best in the galaxy. They hadn't found anything. Why had Gene done something so stupid? What had happened to his policy of only accepting the very best, and when the best didn't show up coming to his ol' pal Fred for money Fred knew he'd never repay and yet continued to loan?

In a fit of frustration over Gene's innate stupidity and his own exhaustion over the same tired circles of thought, Fred threw the pillow. It knocked over both the empty glass and the not quite empty bottle. The smell of alcohol grew stronger as the liquor splashed up from the mouth of the dark glass bottle before settling. The bottle rocked a little on the table and then teetered to the edge, barely retaining its balance.

His tears were long since worn out, but at night he still lay in bed for hours, thoughts racing and racing along the same lines, until he could no longer bear the agony of imagining the explosion again and got out of bed, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and padded into the dark lounge of the house. Once there, he collapsed on the same soft, plush sofa and turned on the television. It didn't matter what he watched. He simply turned the volume down to the bare threshold of hearing and stared blankly at the screen until he fell asleep. Sometimes he drank, when the mindlessness of after-midnight television alone wasn't enough to lull him into oblivion.

But when he used this supplemental approach, he didn't come near oblivion. His sleep was haunted with nightmares, and when he awoke in a cold sweat he could only recall vague images and sounds. But the feeling of terror didn't go away. He always remembered that.

And when, as now, he'd awake on the sofa, television still glaring over him and playing soft sounds, he would drag himself back to his bed and sink into fitful sleep for the rest of the night.


	2. Daytime

Night was the worst.

During the day, he could at least feign going about business as usual.

He went to his meetings, did his paperwork, made and kept social arrangements and attended to all the duties expected of the heir to the Luo fortune.

During the day, he could stop thinking about Gene. At least while he had other things to do. But when he was sitting in the back of expensive cars in transit to any number of places, or sitting in expensive restaurants waiting for wealthy clients, his mind inevitably strayed. It was never as bad as it was at night, but when his mind was left unchecked...

So Fred threw himself into his duties as he never had before. He became so serious about his work, lost so much of his joviality, that his employees had begun to whisper amongst themselves about the change that had come over their employer. Never had he taken such intense interest in the affairs of the company. Submersing himself in the company was a way to keep his thoughts in order.

At work, he was cool, distant. He didn't smile anymore, even in bitterness. He didn't laugh. He didn't get angry.

When he had first gotten the news of Gene's demise, he simply locked himself in his room. For three days, no one knew what had become of him. He didn't request meals. No saw him leave or even heard any sound from inside the room. Rumor amongst those who knew of his affection for the redheaded outlaw was that Fred Luo had killed himself, and even now the corpse of the family's only heir was rotting away in the fancy marble bathtub he'd loved so much. Loved, and had hoped to one day share with someone special.

But Fred emerged again on the morning of the fourth day, polished as ever, though there were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was paler than usual. He went calmly down into the breakfast nook, took a banana from the wire fruit basket and sat, holding the yellow fruit in his hands for nearly an hour, staring at the reflective varnish of the large round table. Finally he peeled the banana, ate it, and got up, leaving the peel on the table and walking out to the car that was waiting to whisk him away to the office.

Fred hated bananas.


	3. Dreaming

He was awoken by an urgent pounding on the door. A few weeks earlier he'd dismantled the intercom system as it pertained to his room because he was sick of people contacting him. He just wanted to be left alone in this one place. He ignored the loud pounding. His head and stomach hurt, and the bare crack of sunlight filtering through between the heavy damask curtains burned his eyes. The sound stopped abruptly, and he thought he could barely make out a raised voice outside his door.

_Thunk, thunk_.

Two rapid shots and the clash of metal on metal and the door flew open. Daylight streamed in, and a familiar shape was backlit in the empty doorframe, a faint trail of smoke still rising from the barrel of the gun in its hand. An individual in a black suit was pressed against the far wall, clearly shaking.

"Luo, you son of bitch, what the hell is your problem?" At the sound of a very, very familiar voice Fred jerked upright, ignoring the wave of dizziness and nausea that threatened to overtake him. He inhaled as the dark figure penetrated further into his room and Fred swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet were silent on the carpet, and just before he was close enough to really make out the features of the person before him who could only be a hallucination, he was overcome by dizziness. But he never hit the floor; a pair of strong hands, one of which was startlingly cold, caught his shoulders. Instinctively Fred flinched away.

But then he looked up, and he met a pair of the most beautiful dark eyes he had ever seen. Eyes he knew quite well. And they were full of concern; concern for him and him alone. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it, reached out a hand and touched the scarred face. A hand pressed his against the warm cheek. Opened his mouth again, and this time he spoke.

"Gene?" The eyes crinkled at the corners, breaking out into a smile Fred could barely make out against the brilliant backlighting.

"The one and only. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I… They told me… you were dead." Fred stared, almost as astonished that Gene didn't pull away as by his sudden reappearance.

"Oh please, you really think a lowlife scumbag could take me out just like that?" Fred was the one to pull away, and when he did, he shocked even himself with his next action: he slapped Gene. Hard.

"You bastard, why didn't you send word sooner? Do you know what I've gone through? Do you!?" Fred grabbed him by the straps of his black shirt, yanked him close enough that Gene could feel the hiss of Fred's breath against his face and instead of replying, he kissed him. Hard.

And in that moment, Fred was positive he had to be dreaming. Because in what sort of insane alternate reality would Gene Starwind _kiss_ him? But if it was a dream, he wished he'd never awake from it, and his anger melted. He wrapped his arms around Gene and held him close, as close as he'd ever wanted to and he could feel Gene wrapping his arms around him, but then that unusually cold hand made him shiver and pull away as they were plunged into darkness once more. Someone outside must have pulled the door shut.

Fred took those hands in his hands, pulled them toward his face. One was unmistakably made of metal.

"Oh my God…" Fred breathed. Gene gently pulled his hands away and Fred could hear him get up, walk over to the bed. He watched the dark outline of Gene sit down on the floor and presumably lean back against the bedframe. He crawled over and sat next to the outlaw. They were silent for a long time.

"I couldn't send word." Gene finally said, his voice soft. "I've been in hospital until just recently." He was quiet again, and Fred didn't press him, didn't want to break the profound silence that had sprung up between them. "Much as I hate to admit it, I almost did die out there. The lower part of my left arm was so badly burned…" He trailed off, and Fred hesitantly reached for his hand, thankful he was on Gene's right. Gene didn't yank his hand away, but instead clutched at Fred's, and he could feel it shaking. "It's pretty cool though," he added in a half-hearted attempt at humor. Fred couldn't find it in himself to laugh, and instead squeezed Gene's hand tighter.

"A-and so you came here, shot the lock off my door just to tell me…?" Fred asked, barely able to speak above a whisper, words trembling.

"When I was recovering, I had a lot of time to think. I couldn't do much else for a long time because the burns were so bad. We go back a long way, don't we Fred?" He didn't answer, and Gene didn't leave time for an answer anyway. "I never wanted to believe it could possible for a "tough guy" like me to feel the way I do… The way I feel about you, Fred.

All these years, and I've been avoiding asking myself that question. A lot of the time, I was busy enough I didn't have to think about it. And suddenly I had nothing to do but think and plenty of time to do it. Fred…" And here, Fred put a finger to Gene's lips.

"Shh… Don't say it yet. I don't entirely believe that I'm not dreaming, and I don't want to hear you say it until I know for sure. Because if I'm dreaming and you say those words, I'll wake up for sure and I want this dream- this moment- to last as long as it can." Gene took Fred's hand in his own, lowered it from his mouth, and pressed his lips to Fred's once more. He kissed him hungrily, as if he wanted to devour the very essence of him in that kiss. And then there was a sharp, sudden pain in Fred's lower lip and he jerked away.

"Did that hurt?"

"Damn it, yes it did."

"Then you aren't dreaming." Gene whispered, kissing his forehead. "I love you, Fred Luo. I love you."


End file.
